


No Regrets

by e_wills



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, Consensual Sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, NSFW, Smut, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_wills/pseuds/e_wills
Summary: Astrid has turned 20! She's celebrating pretty hard, and Hiccup's attempt to be the prudent, sober one results in unintended consequences.





	No Regrets

Ale did strange things to the brain: it loosened inhibitions and melted long-held scruples. The intelligent became dumb; the wise, foolish. Articulate speech fragmented into slurred inanities, and the most composed souls were scattered and disheveled, groping at phantoms of their sober selves. Fun, apparently. Non-so-subtle remarks and bawdy talk prefaced wandering hands that would not heed personal boundaries. A pathway to trouble, definitely. Yes, ale was amber temptation and the death of manners—not that the Hairy Hooligans had much to begin with—and a heady mistake made over again.

Astrid was another winter older. She had reminded everyone for weeks up until the day, so no one would dare forget—not that Berk was accustomed to marginalizing any reason to drink and be merry. Ale flowed liberally; friends and family were all in attendance, as well as those looking for any excuse. Music played. One would think the gods were honored there; but it was just a birthday for a revered mortal woman among them.

Hiccup watched his equanimous girlfriend slip deeper into intoxication, knocking back tankards like it was her job. And, perhaps, that day it was; a person did not turn twenty winters but once. So, Astrid drank with the best of them,  _like_  the best of them—and Hiccup kept a tally in his head. Not even Snotlout could keep pace. Hiccup did not dare to try. Three drinks…four…

His was unenviable position of telling her she had enough. If looks could kill, his flesh would’ve melted under the glare she threw him when he placed his hand over the mouth of her drink.

“Maybe you should slow it down?” he suggested, smile faltering only a little as her scowl worsened.

“It’s my godsdamned  _birthday_ , babe!” And a hissed pet name still boded better than none at all.

“I just want you to remember it.”

She huffed, slamming her tankard down against the table, sloshing its contents. The wood had grown stick and sweet from all the clumsy hands and spilled ale.  Hiccup frowned and laid a placating hand on her knee, but she was well-soured.

“C’mon, Astrid,” he crooned. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

But  _what_  she was meant to regret, Hiccup wasn’t entirely sure. After all, she held her drink better than he ever could. He didn’t dare breathe when her eyes flickered down to her lap. What had disarmed her was not her boyfriend’s gentle warning, but the hand on her leg that had not moved an inch. Hiccup was frozen in the icy blue stare that bound him, when she gazed back up at him, set and determined.

“What are you getting at?” she asked him.

“Nothing?” he replied honestly.

But Astrid moved closer. Hiccup felt like a rabbit courting a fox; he knew he’d be devoured, left only to ponder the how and when. Astrid was hungry, but not for the meat pies and other pastry; Fishlegs and the twins were taking care of those anyway. A simple touch had been enough to trigger a hunger that Hiccup was too weak to ignore. His throat grew tight to match the burgeoning discomfort in his pants. Astrid’s hand found his thigh, to seal his fate. When she drank, there was no such thing as an innocuous touch; and Hiccup had  _yet_  to learn that lesson no matter how many times he was taught.

“We should leave,” she whispered, squeezing his leg; and her hand could have been on his cock for the same effect.

He swallowed thickly, mouth dry. Water could not quench this particular thirst. Each of them ached for one another’s unique remedy.

“People will notice,” he warned.

Astrid huffed. “Since when have you cared what people think?”

But Hiccup cast a sidelong glance at her father and wilted.

“Maybe tomorrow—?”

But it was Astrid’s birthday  _that_  day. Hiccup could no more resist the siren’s call of her hand clasping his than he could the allure of a cloudless sky on a summer day; Astrid was a exhilarating flight without leaving the ground. People knew—they  _had_  to—or they guessed, at the very least. Because Hiccup was a dry air easily ignitable by his girlfriend’s desire; and when they burned, only the fire could smother itself out.

Hiccup didn’t always have clear recollection of how he ended up in such predicaments, but excuses were better formed after the fact, with a clear head. In the moment, he lived for the taste of Astrid’s tongue and they way she grabbed his clothing like it offended her. She wanted him; it didn’t matter if he understood why. When she claimed it was something he did or said: a look or a touch—Hiccup was none the wiser, but didn’t dare to argue. What did the facts matter when they fell back against a wall, hidden in shadows and desperate, muted moans?

Such couplings were not poetic; not the prolonged, romantic dances beneath furs, amid honeyed confessions and sensual hands. In the hidden corners of Berk, known best to shameless lovers, tenderness gave way to impatient lust. What was easy, what was practical, mattered more than languid indulgence.  Hurry, hurry. Touch here, kiss there—stir up enough passion to get the job done.

Even a small slice of fragile privacy could be sweltering as winter raged. Hiccup breathed in the heat of Astrid’s mouth; felt the searing delight of her hand down his pants. They were not graceful. This lovemaking, not poised. They were rushed, delirious, and consumed with fumbling need as he pinned her against the cold, damp wall of the armory. Her gasps matched the hard cadence of his hips, demanding only as much as she would allow. Every thrust drew a yelp, smothered by his throat. With his tunic on, her nails could only do half the damage they did against bare, moonlit skin. But  _his_  fingers were unencumbered, seeking and rubbing; letting her know that quality of sex did not have to be diminished by quantity of moments passed.

She seemed to understand, writhing against his probing fingertips; yet succumbing to the aggressive rhythm of his hips. On her birthday, she could have it rough. Giving up control and composure was its own gift. When she came around him, her eyes were scrunched tight. One hand snaked up the wall, grasping for support that wasn’t there. She came undone against his body, gifting him with the joy of her climax—a nonverbal admission of his sexual aptitude.

In the back of his mind, their absence weighed heavily. They were gone from the mead hall; it would be noticed. Fuck, fuck,  _fuck._  But she was too good, and his common sense lay discarded with his belt on the ground. Astrid was whimpering his name. The ineffably warm, wet bliss of her body gripped him with urgency—and he was lost to anyone and anything else. Even as the cold winds blew through the gaps in planks of the walls, his tunic clung to the perspiration beading along his chest, his back, his abdomen. He held fast to her thigh, raised and bent around him; her full weight felt like nothing to the adrenaline coursing through his arms.

“Don’t,” she whispered, tilting her head back to expose her neck to his welcomed teeth. She read the fervor of his thrusts. Splinters of wood snagged her hair as she sank down the wall, melting into him. “ _Don’t!”_  she repeated, sending mixed messages with her full and enticing lips.

Hiccup was no fool. The timing was not right; but he still cursed how it had to be, when it felt perfect to be grinding hips into hips; his hard, throbbing length stroked to madness by the slick, snug walls of her sex. How unnatural, by comparison, to spill his seed into his hand with an muffled groan. What an unbearable tease for his fist to move effortlessly over his shaft waxed by the relish of her womanhood. One would consider it cruel to take water from a parched man before he had fully satisfied his thirst. Hiccup felt the analogy came close enough.

Astrid sighed heavily—apologetic and disappointed—as Hiccup came into his palms and against her inner thigh, thick ribbons of pearlescent release dripping between his fingers. Her eyes were half-mast and transfixed. As unfulfilling as it was, the titillating voyeurism of watching his orgasm in full could not be discounted.

He fell forward, hands braced on the wall on either side of her head. They panted together; Hiccup from exertion, and Astrid, coming down from the high. Their foreheads touched. Weary smiles spoke louder than words as she played with the crossed lacings of his tunic collar.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she spoke up, breathless.

He pulled back enough to meet her eye, his brow knitted.

She smirked. “I don’t think I anything to regret.”

And he had to laugh—because maybe, this once, ale had been victorious.


End file.
